I had been quiet all night. The only person I had spoken to was Trevor, and it was only about the pizza, the pool table, the stuff that we were actively doing. It wasn’t about art, or my life, or who I was.

  Did he even care what I liked, outside of drawing?

  I’ve always liked stars! That’s why I put them in my story. I’ve always been a fan of putting them on your face. And he would know that, if he had ever actually tried to get to know me. But he hadn’t.

  The anger was building up higher and higher inside of me. I could feel it pulling back and rising up, like a tidal wave looming above a teeny tiny miniature city. And any minute now, it was going to crash down.

  My fingers curled slowly into fists at my side. I curled them there so tightly, it made my knuckles burn white. It made my cheeks burn red. I breathed in, then out, and the sound was steady even though nothing about me was actually steady. I was on the verge of falling apart. I just wanted—I wanted—I wanted him to care.

  But not about what other people thought. I wanted him to care about what I thought. About what I was really like.

  That’s not you, he had told me, but I knew for a fact that he was wrong.

  My voice was small and soft when I asked him, “What if I’m not the girl you like? What if I am the bad guy?”

  He wrinkled his nose at me. “Quinn…”

  That was it. Just Quinn. Like the idea was so silly and childish that he couldn’t even fathom it being a possibility. Like there was no other version of Quinn Hoggwaller other than the one he had decided was worth being friends with.

  I thought about the sounds that he made when I lit him on fire. The way that blood had splashed hot onto my hands as I dug the knife into Dream Alice’s back. The shriek of the girl who got stung to death by wasps. The thump of the mower going over Johnny’s head.

  I thought about all of it, looking straight at him, and then I turned and headed over toward the gate at the end of the side yard.

  Sounding irritated, Trevor asked, “Where are you going?”

  Without stopping, I told him, “I’m going home.”

  Then I flipped the latch on the gate and I let myself out into the late, late night. The gate swung shut behind me.

  It would be a long walk, but that didn’t matter. I would still be home well before my grandparents left the manor to pick me up.

  Trevor doesn’t chase after me.

  I couldn’t decide if that made me feel better about things, or worse about them. I did know that the neighborhood I was in right then, it was boring compared to the one in my dream world. The houses all looked normal. The streets were quiet. The moon was only just starting to wane, so it was still mostly full, plenty big, and a beautiful shade of silver above me.

  I wished that it was full.

  I wished that I could go back to my dream world.

  That was the only place I had ever been where people didn’t judge me. Where they didn’t care what I did, how I acted, what my last name was, where I lived.

  They didn’t care about anything.

  I didn’t have to care about anything.

  The tears finally rolled down my cheeks, no longer possible to hold them at bay. The anger inside of me was overwhelmed by pure misery. Whatever forever, right?

  Except that in that moment, it felt like it would be everything, for life.

  Once Upon a Time

  I got home just as Gramps was getting ready to leave to come pick me up.

  He took one look at me and called out, “Annie!”

  Grandma appeared behind him. Evidently, a crying teenage girl was outside of his wheelhouse. Well, I had news for them both. I was way outside of Grandma’s wheelhouse too.

  “I’m going to bed,” I announced, before Grandma could say anything. I stomped past them, stormed up the stairs, and practically ran down the hallway. I flung open my bedroom door with so much force that it bounced off of the wall, and then I threw myself down on the bed without even checking to see what was going on with the living-dead dolls in the closet.

  I could hear a mouse squeak. The sound of something moving over the floorboards. I thrust my face down harder against the pillow and refused to look.

  Go away, I thought. Go away, go away, go away. I just want you to go away.

  I could hear the sound of someone—Grandma probably—making their way up the stairs.

  Go away, I thought, even harder. I was trying to will her past my room. I didn’t want to talk to her... Go away, go away, go away. I just want you to go away.

  The mouse squeaked. The steps drew closer down the hallway.

  Go away! I thought. The words were more frantic this time. I began mouthing them into the soft curve of the pillow. Go away, go away, go away. I just want you to go away.

  Squeak, went the mouse.

  Squeak, went the hinge on the door, as Grandma let herself in. “Quinn.”

  “Go away!” The words no longer mouthed against cotton but bellowed into them. I didn’t mean to say it out loud, but out loud it was. “Go away, go away, go away! I just want you to go away!” I screamed the last part so loudly, it actually made my throat hurt.

  I kicked my feet against the mattress, feeling like a little kid having a tantrum, but needing to get some of the emotions out of me somehow. If I didn’t make something hurt—the mattress, for instance, and my own toes as they were jammed down hard against them—then I was going to make someone hurt, and that wouldn’t be good.

  Even I knew that wouldn’t be good.

  Silence fell in the wake of my screaming, broken only by the rubber-band snap of my emotions. I started to sob.

  Silently, Grandma stepped into my room. I curled even more pathetically around my pillow and sobbed harder. My shoulders were shaking. My whole body was shaking. That pale-yellow pillow case was being totally ruined by my makeup. I was pretty sure the neon-green streaks and the bright-purple eyeliner and the black mascara smears would never come out.

  Without saying anything, Grandma sat down on the edge of the bed. She just stayed there and let me cry.

  And boy, did I cry.

  I cried until my throat was sore, my eyes were raw, my nose was running, and my head was throbbing. And then, when all of that sobbing was done, I said, “I hate it here,” in the most miserable voice a girl my age could muster.

  The truth was this: I missed my dad.

  The truth was this: I missed my house.

  The truth was this: I missed my life.

  Grandma just reached out and ran her gnarled fingers through my pink curls, brushing them away from my sob-red cheeks. “I know you do, Quinn.”

  She didn’t tell me that it would get better. She didn’t try to tell me that I would learn to love it, or that I should try harder, or any of that stupid crap.

  She just said I know.

  I had made it perfectly clear. I hated this town. I hated this house. I hated the people that lived here, and her dolls, and Gramps’ truck, and the academy, and the teachers. There was so much hate sitting inside of me, it felt like I was going to explode from it all.

  But the tears eventually stopped, and when they did, Grandma reached over, gave my shoulder a single squeeze, and stood up. “I know,” she said, again. And then, “We’ll talk tomorrow, Quinn. A shower might help. Try to get some sleep.”

  Then she was gone, toddling out of the room and down the hall, like there just… there was nothing that could be done.

  But she was right.

  There was nothing that could be done.

  It didn’t matter that I hated it here. It didn’t matter that I wanted my dad back. Those things were never going to change, no matter how much I wanted them to change. They were always going to be real.

  It was just going to be like this, forever.

  Me, laying on this stupid bed, in this old house, surrounded by creepy dolls.

  Whatever, forever—but forever really sucked.

  At some point, I did haul myself out of the bed to get a shower. Then, when my grandparents were both in their room, I hauled myself downstairs to get a glass of warm milk with some honey in it. The honey made me think of the mouse that was definitely still in my room, but I was too tired, physically and emotionally, to make up another plate of poison bread to feed it.

  It wasn’t like that had helped the first time, anyway.

  I gave a heavy exhale and took my warm honey milk into the dining room, sliding into my usual chair at the table. I didn’t bother to turn on any of the lights, and just sat there, sipping my drink, in the dark.

  It was like I blinked. One moment, I was there in the dark. The next, I was prying myself off of the top of the table as ugly bruise-yellow dawn light spilled in through the window. My back and neck were killing me.

  Groaning, I hauled myself out of the chair and, without bothering to put away the glass, I slunk up into my bedroom. Stretching out on my bed did wonders for the aching, but only for the ten minutes before my alarm went off.

  I groaned again, pure misery, and pulled myself out of bed.

  The aforementioned talk with Grandma loomed over me. It was quite literally the last thing I wanted to do. I already felt like utter trash. So I hurried through getting dressed, ran a brush through my hair, and left a note pinned to the fridge.

  ‘Went for a walk.’

  Then I grabbed Grandpappy's book and went outside.

  Instantly, I was assaulted by the bright summer heat. It wasn’t even early enough for breakfast, and already the dew was gone, the streets were sizzling, and sweat was beading down the long curve of my neck. I let out a heavy groan and threw my arms up in the air.

  Where would I even walk to?

  No coast in this town. No ocean to sit and read by. Just the neighborhood, and the stores, and the park.

  Well, that answered it then.

  I went to the park.

  It was as dull and dry as the rest of the town. The grass was a little yellowed from the heat. There was a single loop of cracked pavement that ran through it for joggers and bicycles, and there were exactly two benches, seven oak trees, and a single water fountain in the entire place.

  I sat at the bench next to the water fountain, flipped Grandpappy's book open to the next story, and began to read.

  Once upon a time, there was a little boy who was always hungry. Now, he wasn’t hungry because he didn’t get fed. In fact, George’s parents fed him three meals a day, and they were always very nice meals, too, with butter for the bread, cream for the tea, and salt for the soup.

  But even though George was always fed, he was still always hungry. He couldn’t eat enough to put on weight. The school children laughed at George. They called him string bean. They called him rail tie. They called him thread and needle, and just about everything and anything save his actual name.

  George hated going to school because of that. But he also hated being hungry.

  When he went to school, he would often steal from the other children. Not much. A pea from this plate. A kernel of corn from that one. A little stick of his finger into the pudding of the prettiest girl in the school.

  He stole. He ate. He starved. He lost weight.

  Oh, poor George, he was always so very, very hungry.

  And one day, he got very hungry, and very, very mad.

  The prettiest girl in the school called him string bean, and everyone in the hallway started to laugh. They poked him and mocked him and teased him, until George couldn’t take it anymore. He shoved the prettiest girl in school—Juliet—down the stairs.

  Thump, thump, thump, went Juliet, and then she did not get back up. The other children ran away screaming. Only George remained.

  He went down the stairs and looked at Juliet. She had lips that looked like cherries. She had skin that looked like cream. She had butter-gold hair, and berry-blue eyes that stared up at the ceiling and saw nothing.

  “What a waste,” said George, thinking of how nothing would ever come of Juliet now. And then he thought about how very, very hungry he was.

  By the time that the teachers came running, George and Juliet were nowhere to be seen. That skinny little boy never went back home…but every now and then, a child who had bullied him would go missing from their bed, and a single steak knife would be left in their place.

  That one was way darker than I had been expecting. A shudder ran down my spine. The dark tone didn’t stop me from turning the page and reading the next story, though. If anything, I was hoping that it would be a lighter, happier tale and might wash the thought of eating pretty girls down to the bone from my mind.

  I might have skipped breakfast, but there was no way that I would ever be that hungry!

  Once upon a time, there was a little girl who loved to swim. Sally would spend all day in the water if she could. Her mother would sit on the beach and watch Sally play.

  “Don’t go too far from shore,” Mother would say, but Sally would try her best to swim out a little bit farther each and every day.

  She would dive down to see the fishes. She would jump up to meet the waves. Her skin would turn pink as her heart beneath the sun.

  Mother had to call her back to shore. Every day, Sally wanted to go a little bit farther, and she wanted to swim a little bit more! But Mother was firm; when the sun went down, they had to go in, and so little Sally decided that she would creep back out while Mother was sleeping… Just to get in one more little swim.

  So quick as a bunny and swift as a cat, little Sally changed back into her bathing suit and crept outside. It was dark. The full moon turned the sand into silver powder. She went to the water which was ever so black.

  Behind her, the house.

  Before her, the sea.

  Little Sally couldn’t help it. She went into the waters, and she never, ever came back.

  That one was maybe the shortest story in the book so far, and probably the least interesting too. I bet it was talking about the little porcelain girl back in the smoke room—with the curls and the red one-piece bathing suit on. I didn’t like that room very much.

  It had too many dolls in it, and not enough of anything else.

  With a huff, I decided that not every story in the book could be a winner. It was starting to get hot out. I would read just one more, and then go home to face whatever fussing and huffing Grandma wanted to do over all of the yelling I did the night before.

  I turned the page.

  Once upon a time, there was a forest that stretched out for miles and miles. It was a thick, dark forest, filled with all sorts of dangerous beasts. Most dangerous of all were the wolves. But that didn’t stop young Miss Ann Marie from pulling on her red traveling cloak and setting out for an adventure.

  She loved adventures.

  Ann Marie would spend all day out in the forest, only coming back as night painted the sky.

  “Never stay out past dark,” her mother warned. “Or the wolves will surely get you.”

  “I’ll always be back before dark,” promised Ann Marie.

  Unfortunately, one should never make a promise like that, for it is sure to be broken. And broken it would soon be.

  Ann Marie, wearing red, went out into the woods to play. She climbed on logs. She danced with butterflies. She climbed way up high into the tops of the trees. And she was having so much fun that she lost track of time completely!

  She soon found that the sun was setting. Ann Marie took off running toward home, but her legs were too short and she didn’t make it in time. Soon, the sun had set. The forest looked to be a different place in the dark of the night. She remembered her mother’s warning and was deeply afraid.

  The wolves began to howl. They stalked Ann Marie, even as she made her way toward home. She thought that she had made it, for soon the candle flame of her front porch was visible… And she could hear her mother calling for her.

  “Ann Marie,” called her mother. “You stupid girl, I told you not to stay out past daylight! Ann Marie, please, come back to me!”

  “I’m coming, Mother,” Ann Marie called. She took off running… but the wolves took off running too, and as we all know, wolves are much faster than little girls with short legs and red cloaks. They caught her. They bit her. They ate her.

  And little Ann Marie never, ever made it home.

  Okay, that one was just Little Red Riding Hood, mostly. Which made sense. There were like, three different dolls at the house that looked like they were clearly meant to be Little Red. I guessed that it just made sense Grandpappy would write about them.

  Still, it wasn’t really the sort of thrilling or unique tale I’d been hoping for. It certainly didn’t have anything to hold up against George’s story. I thought that it might be hard to beat that one. I had never actually read a story about cannibalism before.

  The sun was getting higher and the day was getting hotter. Plus, I knew that I had to go back home for that talk at some point, right? Right. I just… Really, really didn’t want to go yet.

  One more story would do it, I supposed. Then I would have to make myself walk back to the house and face the music, the fat lady, and the firing squad all at once. I turned the page, hoping that this story might be a little better than the last two.

  Better? No, the last two were fine. They were good stories. They just weren’t gruesome. And considering I hadn’t been able to kill hardly anyone the last time I went into the other world—only like, three people! That was nothing compared to my usual hauls!—I was really itching for a dose of gory, gruesome fun.

  Once upon a time, there was a brother and a sister who were born on the same day. The brother was a little angel. His name was Timmy. He never cried, or screamed, or got red in the face. The sister was a little devil. Her name was Tammy. She never laughed, or smiled, or had a good day.

  They were the very opposite. Their parents doted on Timmy. He was such a good boy!

  They were always fussing at Tammy. She never got any new toys.

  As toddlers, Timmy and Tammy were close, but a chasm formed between them as they got older. It grew when they grew, getting deeper and deeper, until they just hated each other. Timmy blamed Tammy for everything bad in their lives. And Tammy wished that Timmy had never been born so that she would be the favorite child.